Yehezkel Razilov

The son of Rachel, brother to Tehila Tania.
He was born in the mobile home site in Hatzerot Hefer, two months after his mother immigrated to Israel. He was loved by all, drawn to the Border Police officers who served in the site, and in 2000 moved with his mother and sister to Katzrin, where he excelled in his studies. Later he attended the Steinberg boarding school in Kfar Saba and studied Computer Software Engineering at ORT Shapira.

In his family roots project he wrote: “I help people whenever I can. I want the world I live in to be a world of good people, people who want peace with one another… that everyone will have a positive and good presence in the world.”

He declined the IDF’s invitation to join elite units. “The Border Police,” he declared – the same Magav that fascinated him as a child. After two years of compulsory service, he underwent surgery and was discharged from the army and reserves, receiving a combat soldier’s certificate.

He turned to the field of security, his great passion, which was almost the motto of his life: “I live for others.” In an aptitude test for higher education he was found suitable for Industrial Engineering and Management; in the meantime he studied marketing and advertising strategy, sought a relationship, and eventually chose film direction and music.

He was a young man with a heart of gold, pure, eager to help and give of himself, blessed with high emotional intelligence, innocent and sweeter than honey, ambitious and creative, a peacemaker who loved all living things. He loved traveling around the country, adored animals, read endlessly, enjoyed deep conversations with people in nature, played snooker and backgammon, wrote poems and inspirational lines, and left behind a book that was never published. But above all, he loved connecting people. He bonded with others easily and they with him. He loved his family, his friends, and more than anything, with every fiber of his being, he loved the nation and the homeland.

Rachel, his mother, wrote:
“Hazi, my beloved son. When I look at your life, I see so many words that begin, like your name, with the letter H: friendship, wisdom, compassion, smile, grace, life, freedom, liberty, duty. All these were values that mattered deeply to you.
Friendship: because you loved your friends with true love.
Wisdom: because your knowledge and understanding of life’s mysteries knew no bounds.
Compassion: because your heart held so much empathy for others, for people, for animals, and for nature.
Grace and smile: because from the moment you were born you had a charm that moved everyone, and your radiant smile never left your face.

The value of duty was especially important to you. People tell me now that you are a hero. And I answer in your name: when you went south to help the soldiers, you were not thinking of being a hero. You believed it was your duty. You could not sit at home with folded hands. You enlisted yourself to go south to help the country at its hardest hour.

The values of ‘freedom’ and ‘life’ were always intertwined for you. I remember a moment: you were a child, we were sitting with a group of people, and a discussion began. And you, the little boy, said with confidence that your mother taught you that the most important thing is to choose freedom and life.

Even in your death, these two values were with you. You chose to give your life for the freedom of the people of Israel, for Tania, for me, for a free Israel.

When the war broke out and you heard that the people of Israel were in danger, you leapt into the fire. You had a full exemption from reserve duty, but on the seventh of October you rushed south to fight, were turned back at checkpoints, tried again, and succeeded. You volunteered to fight in the defense of the Gaza envelope in the Iron Swords War.

On October 13, the news arrived that you had fallen in battle. Thirty years old. A hero of Israel.

Hazi, I always asked myself: why was I privileged to immigrate to the Land of Israel, when Torah scholars and so many others did not? I received the answer: perhaps it was for this moment, so that you would choose to go defend the residents of the south, the homeland.

We immigrated in October, and in October you fell on the borders of the land of our ancestors. You fell in sanctification of the Name, which you adorned and loved.

My beloved Hazi, I fled with you from a foreign land, from antisemitism, fearing they would call you a ‘Jew’. And here, in our land, the unimaginable happened – a calamity. In the land you loved endlessly, the land you arrived in while still in my womb, and for which you gave your life.

My Hazi, I see the sun within you rising every morning, its light warming everyone. And at night, the stars appear, and your star is always there to light the way. You were light. Warm, loving, gentle light. Leaving behind a sense of calm, a sense of peace. I hope this feeling of embracing light stays with me forever.

Among your belongings I found a note on which you wrote: ‘From my experience with people and in general, nothing happens for no reason. Everything has cause and effect. And I know I can give you all a great reason to wake up in the morning with a smile, and see the world in light.’

Friends who spoke with the family said that Hazi always helped others. A line found in his journal reads: ‘I live for others!’

Hazi was not only my son, he was also my friend. With me he went through the immigration, the hardships, the struggle to make it in this country. Until the very end we traveled together, sat side by side at family events, shared experiences and thoughts every day. The day began with ‘Good morning’ and ended with ‘Good night, Mom, love you.’ Good night, Hazi. I love you.

‘Good morning, my beloved son. Good morning, my Hazi.’ That is how every day began before you fell. And that is how it still begins, because your light cannot be extinguished. For me, you live – and will live forever.”

May his memory be a blessing.